Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 11 - Chapitre 20

They returned to the New York penthouse. The tropical sun and the turquoise sea felt like a distant dream, replaced once more by the steel-and-glass reality of Lynn's gilded cage. The awkward intimacy of the sickroom on the island had not traveled back with them. Caius retreated behind his impenetrable CEO facade, colder and more distant than before, as if trying to erase the memory of his own brief moment of vulnerability. Lynn, for his part, clung to his silence and his art, the shame of his unconscious nuzzle still a fresh wound. The dark, chaotic paintings continued to pile up in his studio.Life settled back into the oppressive routine, but a subtle shift had occurred. Lynn found himself watching Caius more closely, not just with hatred, but with a nagging, unwelcome curiosity. The image of Caius's trembling hands and fear-stricken face on the dock was seared into his memory, a stark contradiction to the man who had called him "Lucas."A few weeks after their return, Lynn was in

The car ride back to the penthouse was a silent, pressurized container of tension. Lynn sat as far from Caius as possible, his body rigid, his mind a whirlwind of Marcus's words. Involved. Justice. Freedom. They echoed, drowning out the memory of Caius's trembling hands and the brief, confusing moments of something softer. The seed of doubt Marcus had planted was sprouting into a poisonous, vengeful tree.Back in the penthouse, the oppressive silence felt heavier than ever. Caius went straight to his study without a word, the door closing with a definitive click that sounded like a prison gate slamming shut. Lynn stood in the center of the living room, his fists clenched. The walls, the cameras, the sheer, suffocating luxury of the place—it all felt like a mockery. He was living in the house of the man who might have destroyed his family.He couldn't stand it. He needed to do something, to find a crack, a clue, anything that would prove or disprove Marcus's claims. He remembered the c

The memory of Caius's whispered plea and the ghost of his touch on Lynn's lips lingered through the rest of the night, a haunting counterpoint to the gnawing hunger in his belly. The following day, the weakness was worse. The world swam at the edges of his vision. He refused the breakfast tray, the smell of food now making him nauseous. He spent the day in bed, drifting in and out of a light, feverish sleep, his body consuming itself for fuel.Sometime in the afternoon, a wave of dizziness hit him so strongly he couldn't stand. He tried to get up for water, but the floor tilted violently. The last thing he remembered was the cold, hard impact of the floor against his cheek, and then, nothing.He came to slowly, the world returning in fragments. The softness of a pillow beneath his head. The crisp scent of clean sheets. A low, murmuring voice. He was back in his bed. His body felt heavy, leaden, but the sharp edge of hunger had been blunted. There was a dull ache in his arm.He forced

The weekly outings became Lynn's only window to the world, a bittersweet ritual of temporary escape and reinforced captivity. He learned the routines of the guards, the layout of the approved galleries. He also learned to school his features, to hide the moments of genuine emotion that art could still spark in him, knowing that unseen eyes might be reporting back to Caius. The loneliness was a constant companion, but it was a familiar one now, a dull ache beneath the surface.A week after his visit to the modern art museum, he was at a different gallery, this one showcasing classical European masters. The air was hushed, filled with the scent of old wood and varnish. He was standing before a Rembrandt, studying the play of light and shadow on the subject's face, when a familiar, smooth voice broke his concentration."Lynn. Fancy meeting you here. A man of diverse tastes, I see." Marcus Evans stood beside him, smiling that charming, empty smile. He was holding a small catalog. "The use

The days following Lynn's discovery of the files on the storage card were shrouded in a new kind of silence. It was no longer just the quiet of resentment or captivity; it was the grim, focused silence of a soldier preparing for war. He moved through the penthouse with a new purpose, his eyes sharp, missing nothing. He was studying his jailer, his environment, looking for weaknesses. The hatred was a cold, steady flame in his chest, warming him against the occasional chill of doubt. He had seen the "evidence." There was no room for ambiguity anymore.He had completely forgotten about his own birthday. The date had lost all meaning in the timeless limbo of his imprisonment. So when he walked into the dining room on the morning of his twenty-third birthday, the sight that greeted him was a jarring, surreal interruption to his grim reality.Sitting in the center of the otherwise empty table was a cake. It was large, elaborately decorated with intricate sugar flowers and delicate scrollwo